


It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

by orphan_account



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Abuse of italics, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alex Standall: resident heartbreaker, Alex's Sad Eyes™, Banter, Drunk Driving, Fight Club References, Hurt/Comfort, I didn't mean for this to be as long as it is, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nihilism, POV First Person, Physical Therapy, Pining, Sarcasm, Tension, Zach Dempsey: Human Sequioa, Zach is slightly insufferable in this, Zach's POV, abuse of parenthesis, fellas is it gay to think about your homie kissing you?, honestly just lots of book/movie references, including Nietzsche, listen i swear i watched this show ironically, secret scenes, this fic covers the entire season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24666817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I sit up and we blink at each-other. Water droplets are caught in his dark lashes, his eyes wide and sad just like Chloe's. Fuck. I shut my eyes and drop back on my elbows, tilting my head back."This is like the second time I've almost died when hanging out with you this semester, man." he finally says."Yeah, but it's also the second time I've saved you." I point out.I expect him to shoot some barb back about how I wouldn't've have had to save him if I hadn't put him in danger in the first place, but he doesn't."More times than that." He says softly.
Relationships: Charlie St. George/Alex Standall, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Zach Dempsey/Alex Standall
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90





	It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

**Author's Note:**

> pretend this isn't formatted wrong lol also I swear I watched 13rw ironically and then got genuinely attached to these two. embarrassing

I've been thinking a lot about death. 

I think it gets easier the more you interact with it, kind of like learning a new skill. I feel like I'm on the precipice of something profound, here, like if people could just let everything go like I have they'd realize how _easy_ it all gets when you realize that _literally nothing matters._

Maybe I'm late to the nihilism party, but I'm surprised more people haven't embraced this shit, like, years ago. Alex would probably make some Nietzsche or Camus reference here that maybe I would've gotten if I hadn't decided to give up in Lit this year. (And Calc. And Anatomy II. And Econ. Should I go on?) He's been into that shit for _years._ I probably would've called it pretentious, once upon a time, in fact I often did, but now I realize that it's the exact opposite; it frees you from caring about everyone's bullshit enough to find it in you to be pretentious in the first place. _Or_ it frees you from everyone else's bullshit to be freely pretentious without caring about them judging you for it. Maybe both. Or neither. Who cares!

Anyway. I've been finding the most space to breathe in moments of absolute mind-numbing breathlessness, whether it comes from driving too fast or drinking too much with some girl from another school and losing myself in her soft hair and softer lips or tip-toeing across building ledges while the traffic crawls down below. I showed Alex that one, the other night. The night he kissed me. I keep prodding at the memory like a sore tooth, trying to gauge how I feel about it. I don't know. I've definitely had worse kisses. 

I tried to let him down easy. God, I think he was more embarrassed than the time in the locker room. I think it's because this time we couldn't both explain it away as anything other than what it was. 

It's times like this that I'm pretty damn grateful for my own ability to stay level headed. Unshakeable, I've been told! Zach Dempsey, human Sequoia! That's what May used to call me once I hit my growth-spurt. It's definitely not true, especially not anymore, and I'm kinda sick of faking it til I make it, but....it did come in handy, here, because I laughed it off without too much heartache for either of us. I knew it was what Alex needed to feel better; he needed someone to get him just close enough to the edge to _feel something,_ then someone to keep him from falling. He's always teetered dangerously between his impulsivity and his reclusivity, his desire to both make himself constantly _heard_ and _seen_ by those who underestimate him and his desire to hide away like a sarcastic Palahniuk character who never lets anybody in. (No, I haven't read _Fight Club_ , either, but I have a sneaking suspicion even Alex can't deny liking the movie just a little bit more. I think it's the Pixies song at the end. I've never had the heart to tell him it was one of Monty's favorites.) 

Maybe I've thought about it too much. The kiss. What’s the normal amount?

He kept apologizing the entire car ride home and I kept telling him it was _fine_ because, well. It was. It didn't kill me, or anything. And now I can say I've tried it, and now I never have to again.

  
  


Damn.

I kind of want to.

I mean, surely if it was a one-and-done kinda thing I wouldn't feel as confused as I do right now? Human sexuality doesn't _have_ to be complicated. It's instinctual, it's messy, it's fluid. I get that. I've been indulging more now than ever before, and it's mostly been pretty fucking awesome. 

Mostly. 

If I miss the way that Hannah would smile at me from underneath her damp, messy curls or the way that Chloe would bite her lip and get all misty-eyed afterwards, well. I'll grow out of it.

I guess I was more okay with thinking of sexuality as fluid when it didn't really apply to me, too. I miss lines. I miss when they were uncrossable and binding, when Dad was still here and everything I was supposed to care about was _what I did actually care about,_ predestined and tangle-free. Then I met these fucking people. 

I still care about them, somewhere, but I can't bring myself to get swept up in the tide of their lives again, it's just too fucking much. 

Which brings me back to the subject of death. _That's_ a line I'm okay with blurring. I've watched five people I cared about die in the past two years. You can understand why it's fucking _killing me_ to keep caring about anyone, anymore, right? Trying to reconcile the part of me that thought of as Bryce and Monty as brothers with the part of me that fucking _hates_ them, _hates_ what they did, is too fucking hard. 

So I've given up on the reconciling! I'm living a reconcile free life! 

Walking on ledges and getting just tipsy enough to drive around without crashing is a much better past time, anyway, and if the line blurs a little too much and I go a little too far, what do I have left to lose?

...Mom and May, of course. But May would be okay, at least. She's stronger than I ever was, and brighter, too. Her optimism feels like the real thing; not just something to fake until you almost actually believe it like mine and Mom's. Mom asked where I'd been, after I dropped Alex off. I told her some version of the truth and watched her face lift in a hopeful smile.

"Alex Standall? It's been a while since I've heard you mention his name."

I nodded, shoving a piece of cold pizza into my mouth. 

"Helping with his PT again?"

I lied and said yes. It was easier that way. Plus now whenever I need a reason to leave for the night I'll have that trusty excuse to pull out again.

I thought of him leaving his cane at home every day this year, him walking along the ledge (mostly) by himself, him being brave enough to go for the kiss even when he wasn't sure I'd reciprocate. He's doing pretty well without my help these days anyway. 

  
  


—*—*—

  
  


My dad used to take me camping. I don't think either of us were really big on it, though. We would usually only do a night and we would bring so much extra shit with us that I don't even think it really counted as camping. At the time I complained just for the sake of complaining, but now I'd give up a hell of a lot to go back to one of those trips, just once. The hiking was nice, if nothing else. Now I can't even do that without having to take a break every twenty minutes because of my fucking knee. I still feel the sting and the sickening _snap_ with every step.

For the end of our freshman and sophomore years the guys and I would all go on a weekend camping trip, too, but most of our time on those was just spent getting shitfaced in Bryce's zillion dollar RV. Some things never change, I guess, because that's all I've been doing on this trip so far. I've got plenty of alcohol smuggled here to keep my flask niiiice and refilled. I'm not sure I could bear any of this without it. Convincing Mom to let me come wasn't as hard as I thought it was going to be after the Pi Sigma Tau incident, and I might actually have Chloe to thank for that because I think Mom noticed how red and puffy my eyes were after I went and saw her. After everything, we're still a family paralyzed by real emotion. My mom doesn’t take well to seeing me shaken up. It shakes her up, too, then we’re all just sitting and waiting to explode like a family of soda cans. She'd been pretty unyielding before the Chloe thing, though, even after Clay's dad had talked to her. I missed the gist of the conversation (I hid in my room with my airpods in for the sake of my own eardrums) but I can only assume that Mr. Jensen hung up with a lifelong regret for ever crossing paths with Karen Shan-Yung Dempsey. 

I got mine, too, after he hung up, but I've gotten pretty good at tuning her out. I kind of have to, for my sanity's sake, because if she goes on too long her eyes start to glisten and I actually start to feel bad again. 

Seeing Chloe was hard. She's always been able to see right through me even if she didn't used to have to point it out. I know I'm hurting her, I can see the ache of it in her sad eyes when I can barely bring myself to look at her, but it's better this way. I wish I could explain it to her, that she needs to give up on me. What do we even have if I can't be the steady version of myself she knew me as? I've given up on being that, and it would be dishonest to pretend otherwise. I could only be careful for so long, and I'm pretty sure if she sticks with me now I’ll break her into a million pieces like a porcelain doll. I think she heard about me taking someone else to the Valentine's dance, anyway, because she's stopped trying to reach out for the past few weeks. It's probably for the best. If I let her think of me as the asshole I am instead of trying to be the Good Guy all the time then she'll be able to move on without missing me. 

She's like the only person I would ever cry in front of without hating myself for it, though, so there is that. I'm not sure I'd even be able to see her without bawling like a baby again (another pro to add to my mental list of why it'd be good to avoid her for the rest of my high school career.) 

It did come in handy when I got home and my mom saw the leftover tear tracks on my face—I guess the evidence that I _do_ still have feelings convinced her that this trip would be good for me: a few dry days with my old friends (specifically Alex and Charlie) would be just what I needed! I had to promise to stay away from Clay and she checked my bag twice before I left (it really isn't hard to hide bottles in rolled up clothes), but here I am! The great outdoors await. I'm currently drunk and it's barely 3 PM, so. That's how it's going for me so far. 

I'm staring at the sun and laying in a kayak I found when Alex traipses through the trees above me in a checkered shirt and a bright orange vest. 

"I'm pretty sure those work better on water than on rocks."

I squint up at him, sunspots blocking out part of my vision. "Wanna find out?"

He hesitates. "My dad's just up the hill."

"Yup." there's an unspoken challenge, here. He likes those.

  
  
  
  
  


After a lot of maneuvering we get out deep enough for me to start rowing, and after a few minutes of silence Alex heaves a sigh. I can tell something's bothering him but we don't really talk about that kinda stuff anymore, so all I end up saying is, "It's a good thing you brought that vest, you never know when you'll have to start directing traffic in the middle of the woods."

I cannot believe I used to think of myself as charming. I would lament my astounding lack of social grace, but Alex has never been one to care about things like that. Talking to him is so much easier than talking to anybody else.

He blinks then cracks a smile. "Shut up, man, do I look like the kind of guy who just keeps camping-appropriate clothing laying around?"

I shake my head. "Alex, you couldn't look _less_ like the kind of guy who just keeps camping-appropriate clothing laying around." 

He nods like he accepted this about himself long ago. "My point exactly." 

I wait a beat then kick his foot with mine. 

"You all good, man?"

The small smile he'd been sporting disappears and he asks if I can keep a secret. 

I stare blankly at him. "Do you really have to ask me that?"

"All right, fair point. It's about Winston."

So, he tells me about Winston. Part of me wants to fist pump the air because _I knew he was a fucking prick_ , but I probably shouldn't tell Alex that. A few seconds pass and then I say "It seems like he kind of sucks, anyway." (Which is basically the same thing as saying “I knew he was a fucking prick.” Points for trying?)

He looks down. "Yeah, I dunno…..I just feel like I'm just not meant to be happy, or like--" I cut him off and impart some classic Zach Dempsey wisdom about how happiness is all bullshit and we're freer without it. I don't even recognize myself when I speak anymore, but that might just be the alcohol making everything burn too brightly and making me feel like being way too honest. Who knows, maybe it'll actually help him. He's the only person I know other than Clay who would benefit from _less_ introspection. I take a swig from my bottle and he does too. The rest is a bit of a blur, but once we start chanting "fuck it all!" it feels just like it always does with him: blurry and carefree and kind of excellent. Until he falls, of course. I hit the deck hard, my vision swimming, and giggle. _He totally ate shit!_ I wait to hear him resurface, spluttering about how he wouldn't have fallen if I hadn't plied him with rum in the middle of the day, but he doesn't. I blink blearily at the water before it starts to ripple from his thrashing below the surface. I'm diving in before I even realize it, hitting the water and ignoring the sting in my eyes as I try to see through the dirty water to find him. He struggles in my arms after I grab him, flailing like I'm trying to pull him down deeper. It scares the hell out of me. I pull him to the shore and we collapse into a wet heap, his panting breaths broken up by the occasional hiccup.

Fuck, I'm way too drunk for this. I start to laugh uncontrollably, adrenaline making me dizzy. 

"Holy shit, Alex! You almost died!" 

He doesn't answer, just keeps making these little whimpering sounds and breathing like he'll never get enough air again. I lift my head, lake water still stinging my eyes. "Yo, you with me or what? Talk to me, come on, what the fuck's going on, man?" 

He sits up. "Shit's so fucked up." He sounds like he might cry.

"Yeah, you think?"

I sit up and we blink at each-other. Water droplets are caught in his dark lashes, his eyes wide and sad just like Chloe's. Fuck. I shut my eyes and drop back on my elbows, tilting my head back. 

"This is like the second time I've almost died when hanging out with you this semester, man." he finally says.

"Yeah, but it's also the second time I've saved you." I point out.

I expect him to shoot some barb back about how I wouldn't've have had to save him if I hadn't put him in danger in the first place, but he doesn't.

"More times than that." He says softly.

I swallow and kind of wish I was sober right now.

I keep my eyes shut. "You made the decision to save yourself, man. It was all you. I just, like….facilitated, or something."

He snorts softly. "Whatever you say, Zach." He sounds fond. I crack an eye open and he's looking at me, eyes just as big and blue and heartbreaking as they always are. 

"Alex." 

"Yeah?"

"I really am sorry about Winston. Even if I do think he sucks." 

"Pft. Thanks, man. It's whatever. As long as we don't tell him anything we're good, right? He's got nothing." 

"Nope." I pop the p. My traitorous mouth opens again and I really wish I'd had less to drink. 

"I just….don't want you to think that him having ulterior motives means that you're not, like, worthy of some girl—or guy—really liking you for you, and shit." 

His ears are a little red. I feel cruel, all of a sudden, like me attempting to be real is coming across as more of a taunt than anything else, like I'm still in the process of letting him down easy. He's still looking at me. I stare straight ahead.

"I thought happiness only leads to unhappiness?"

"It does, but that doesn't mean I don't think you shouldn't have someone non-shitty to slowly grow miserable with." 

He smiles at that, a real one, then climbs to his feet, trying to shake the water droplets off of him like a sheepdog. "Right, well, I should probably go find my dad and dry off before he panics and organizes a search party." 

He's giving me an out. Grateful, I shut my eyes and lean back, not caring about all of the mud probably sticking to my wet shirt. "See you, man."

I hear his footsteps crunch through the foliage before everything becomes silent again, the water beginning to slowly dry from my face in the weak sunlight. I remember how I felt the time he fell asleep instead of responding after Monty sent him a gun. (Which, by the way, _fuck_ Monty for that. Seriously.) I remember how panicked I was, how I almost got a speeding ticket on the way over to his house, how mad I was at him when he told me he didn't respond because _his thumbs got tired_.

As much as caring that deeply hurts, sometimes I miss the way it used to ache, worrying so much about the people around me. It felt like half of my Iife used to just be checking on Alex and carrying things for him, and shit. Or just playing video games in his room so that he had something to occupy himself with. It always made me feel useful, plus I got to talk to him a lot more than I do now. I'm alone most of the time these days. 

I pull myself to my feet. Did I leave my flask in the boat?

  
  
  


—*—*—

  
  
  


I'm thinking of trying something.

Just speaking in hypotheticals here, but (theoretically) if I were to sleep over at Alex's the night of the party ( _after_ I get most decidedly shitfaced) then I might just have enough liquid courage to do this thing I wanna try. This _hypothetical_ thing I wanna try. This thing I wanna try that we already did once that gave me whatever the opposite of closure is.

And hopefully if he's also drunk enough he won't kill me for it, because, like, what if I end up trying it and then I decide I don't actually like it, after all, and then I have to deal with another month of him being all awkward and sad and making me feel all awkward and sad too? I'm so not down to spend another month feeling awkward and sad. Maybe I shouldn't try it. But then I'll never know...

Maybe I'll just wait and let drunk Zach make the decision, instead. He makes better decisions than people give him credit for. 

Alex pops out of the door in front of me in the hall. No going back now. I run up behind him and grab his narrow shoulders. "Heeey! So, we need more Zach and Alex time—how about I stay over tomorrow night?"

"I'm not gonna kiss you again if that's what you're hoping."

Pshhh. (Shit.)

I make a sound that hopefully at least distantly resembles a laugh. "I'm glad that we can joke about this! It's a good sign...progress! But seriously, tomorrow night."

"Uhm, yeah, I guess!"

"Perfect, yes! Because the deal is we're going to the Find a Drink party to find many, _many_ drinks. And my mom set up cameras in my room so I need a cover story and a place to sleep it off." 

(That's actually true. Un-fucking-believeable. _Cameras_ in my room. It took a lot of convincing for her not to put them in the bathroom, too. I am living in _1984_. Which is one I actually have read, thank you.)

"Well you can have the cover story, and the guest room, but I'm gonna pass on the party, because I am anti-people currently."

(I didn't used to sleep in the guest room but whatever, still a win in my book.)

"And I get that buuut _maybe_ that's why you should go."

"...Wait a minute, your mom put up cameras in your room?"

"That's only part of it, but don't even get me started. Anyways—I'm picking you up at eight, and if you make _any attempt_ not to go to this party, I will actually _come and pick you up_. At eight." I waggle my eyebrows. "That's hot, right? I'll actually come and, like, physically...pick you up? Come on! We can have hot banter, right?"

(What am I even talking about right now? Am I making it obvious I've spent even a modicum of time thinking about the logistics of me picking him up? I mean, he wasn't that heavy when I dragged him out of the lake, that's all. I'm overthinking it.)

"...How am I even friends with you?"

"Uhhh I'm handsome, charming, and I saved you from drowning. Eight 'o' clock!"

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


I'm in front of his house by 7:55, which is the first time I've been on time for something in a while. I'm motivated when I have to actually leave the house for alcohol! 

Alex seems unenthusiastic when he slides into the passenger seat seven minutes later.

"Cutting it close, there, Alex, I might've had to actually pick you up." 

He clips his seatbelt and gives me a blank stare. "You know, you might not be as charming as you think you are if you have to threaten violence to get me to go with you." 

"It's not necessarily a _violent_ threat…" I say, attempting to waggle my eyebrows again. 

He covers his face with his hands, words muffled. "God, let's just go." 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It doesn't take long for us to split up once we actually get there, since Alex seems determined not to have a good time. It's hard to have fun at a Find Your Drink party when you insist on not drinking. I don't live that far away, I told him it'd be fine if he wanted to drink a little bit, but he insisted on driving me home then told me to text him whenever I want to leave and disappeared. I'm guessing that probably means it's a no on whether or not I try to do The Thing later, which is probably for the best, anyway. He's clearly still heartbroken over Winston and I'm (surprisingly) not selfish enough to disregard that. Now I'm sitting at the piano pretending I'm in La _La Land_ , or something. 

I talk to Clay for a little bit, who is probably currently showing the girl who was staring at him a mediocre at best time, but I'm happy for him. 

Then I see her. Chloe. I didn't think I was going to see her tonight. We talk, for a little bit, then I fuck everything up and try to kiss her. I hate myself for doing it when she was just trying to check on me, but I'm kind of a selfish asshole so I'm not even surprised by my own bullshit at this point. Those sad eyes pin me to my spot and I make some excuse about being too busy to see her this week (I've been telling so many people that lately I can't even try to make it sound believable anymore.) 

Then she's gone. 

How can you know someone so well, see and be seen by them at your most vulnerable, and then have to make small talk with them at a party like all of it never happened? 

How stupid is it that I'm upset over someone who _I_ decided to ignore in the first place? I wanted her to recognize that I'm a lost cause, and maybe now she actually has. That should be good, but it still just _fucking sucks._

I down the rest of my drink in one, then go to find Clay, who I'm guessing is in the foyer—in my experience, following the telltale sound of someone getting their ass kicked leads to him at least 75% of the time. 

  
  


—*—*—

  
  


**Alex Standall:** ready to go whenever

 **Alex Standall:** dude are you even still here

 **Alex Standall:** zach are you ok??

**Alex Standall is requesting your location.**

**Alex Standall:** charlie's gna drive me home. hope you're ok. 

  
  
  


—*—*—

  
  
  
  


When I was 9, I found a baby bird in the backyard with a bent wing. I remember the way I knelt on the grass, cradling its tiny, broken body while it blinked glassily up at me, attempting to jerk away from me in small, aborted movements. I held it as gently as I could and made the trek inside, my mom immediately looking up from the plate of canapés she was arranging to tisk at me for the wet grass stuck to my feet that was going to get all over the floor before she noticed what I was holding and rushed over, gently taking it from my hands. It was making these horrible little squeaking sounds, too weak to even really struggle. We put it in a shoebox with some cloth and fed it a formula through an eyedropper. I would try to check on it every two seconds and Mom would have to gently steer me away, her cool fingers on the nape of my neck while she explained that it wouldn't heal if I kept interrupting the process. 

It slowly got stronger, its ugly patchy puffs growing into real feathers and its ability to move around and flap both wings improving every day. It was a sparrow. 

A few weeks later we all cheered watching my dad stand on a deck chair to put it back into its nest, and I stayed out until dark craning my neck up at the nest to watch it even though I couldn't see much from the ground, just the occasional flash of blue. My mom eventually pulled me inside but I could barely sleep because I was wondering about the little bird. I woke up first thing in the morning to go check on it but couldn't hear any chirping, so I made my dad lift me up on his shoulders to see into the nest. It was just laying there, limp and still. I poked it with my finger and it didn't even twitch, and then I cried for, like, three days straight.

I've been thinking about lost causes.

I never would've told him this at the time (and I definitely wouldn't now, I'm so done with being forced to open up by the heart-to-heart police all the fucking time) but helping Alex with his PT last year is what made me even remember that story. He seemed so frail at the start; horribly breakable and so, so _angry_. At me, at himself, at Bryce. 

Touching him felt like holding the bird again, feeling the fragile ba-dum of his pulse through soft skin interrupted by jutting bones. 

I never thought of him as a lost cause, though, even when he was blowing me off and refusing to do the work. Even when he was yelling his head off at me about whatever was pissing him off that day. (There was always plenty to yell about.) Even when he couldn't remember what we'd talked about the day before. Helping him always felt simple, like it was something I had to do not just out of some kind of sense of morality, but because of how right it felt. I've always liked playing the protector, I guess he was just one more in a long line of baby birds. I don't know. Maybe that's stupid. Actually, I _know_ it's stupid.

I felt the same way about Chloe, so fragile after Bryce but completely unwilling to let herself be the victim, strong enough in her vulnerability to tell the truth, to ask me for help. I'd hoped she'd be able to save me, but. Obviously not. I feel like an idiot for even considering it. I'm just glad she got out. 

The point here is that these days I know how to recognize a lost cause when I see one. They weren't it, but me? I am. I'm absolutely fucking dunzo. Have been ever since Bryce fucked up my knee and my life in the process (and Clay drove the nail into my coffin with the crash.) It's probably what I deserve for letting Bryce and the rest of them get away with their shit for so long. I've always been one to take the easy way out, and now I don't have any other option. 

I see _real_ perseverance in them, though. Justin and Jess, too. Not just the kind of football-pep-talk stories of perseverance the rest of the guys I know regurgitate like they even know what they're talking about. As long as everyone else is as close enough to fine as they can get, well. That's good enough for me, and I'm free to fuck off and do whatever I want instead of pulling them all down with me.

Speaking of perseverance (and my lack of it), everything hurts and I need more morphine. Mom is alternating between calling every lawyer she knows, sitting at my side gazing at me like I'm on my fucking deathbed or something, and yelling at me because she thinks I was out drunk driving alone. (I've gotten good enough at that in the past few months to know how not to crash, thanks.)

As much as I wanna tell her the truth, Clay has enough red in his ledger right now. I'm just gonna have to take this one. Doesn't mean I'm ever gonna talk to him again, though. Mom won't even let me see May. I _really_ need to get out of this hospital. I'm not good with hospitals. I feel like such a pussy but I really, really can't deal with them. I feel like I'm entitled to that, I'm entitled to have _one thing_ that I just can't fucking deal with. I feel like I'm suffocating in these starchy sheets, like they're holding me in place while the fluorescent lights burn straight through my eyelids. My stomach rolls every time I open my eyes. I think I might be going through minor alcohol withdrawal but at least I have some sweet new painkillers to take the edge off. At one point I think I hear Alex's voice but then it fades and I assume I imagined it and go back to drifting in my bright, syrupy malaise. I could probably even sleep if my phone didn't keep fucking dinging. I can't reach it and my arm hurts waaay too much to move it right now so I can't check it. I wonder vaguely how I'm gonna jerk off for the next month. _God, I'm gonna kill Clay._

**Alex Standall:** i'm so sorry i wasn't there to keep clay from acting like a lunatic

 **Alex Standall:** i really really hope everything is ok. your mom wouldn't let any of us see you bc she thinks it's a dui and you were alone??

 **Alex Standall:** text me when you get the chance

**Jessica Davis:** I heard what happened. I told Clay not to text you. Hope you're okay. 

**Charlie St. George:** Zach I am SO sorry, I feel like this is all my fault because Alex and I ate some of my cookies and lost track of time and we didn't think to go looking for you until you'd already left, and I convinced him that you'd probably just ditched us again so I drove him home. He's pretty worried that you're mad at him and he feels like it was his fault. We tried to come see you but your mom wouldn't let us in. Text back when you see this. Sorry. 

**Tyler Down:** I heard about the accident, I really hope you're okay and if you ever want any of us to come see you let me know!! Clay feels really bad about it but but Jess said that him reaching out will only make things worse but I think you should know he feels really bad

**Tony Padilla:** Clay is such an idiot. Sorry for him.

 **Tony Padilla:** Bring your car in any time and my boys can fix her up. No charge. 

**Chloe Rice:** I heard what happened with everything and I just wanted to say I'm always here if you need me, even if it's just a ride or something while your car gets fixed, or if you ever need a DD or anything. I really hope you're okay please let me know when you see this. <3

  
  


—*—*—

  
  


Sometimes in my dreams different people can be the same person. I don't really know if that makes sense, but it always does in the dream itself. It isn't really something I think you can say with words, there's just this sense of total certainty in the dream where everything makes complete sense, even if it seems stupid or nonsensical when you try to remember it later. 

I keep having dreams where Chloe and Alex are the same person. I have for a while, but the painkillers have been making it worse. They sort of....twist in and out of each-other. I dunno. Like I said, it's hard to explain with words. It's usually them yelling at me, though. It's like a fill in for my conscience, and they always tell me that they needed me and I let them down. It's fucking annoying because in the dream I know that they're right, that I am being selfish, but I don't know what else to do. Usually I can't move, and when I wake up I have to wait for the pressure on my chest to subside before I can struggle to sit up and down more Vicodin. With waking up comes the realization that they don't _actually_ need me, that nobody actually needs me, and I'd probably fuck it up even if they did. I just can't bring myself to fucking _care_ anymore. They've all been texting me, asking to come visit. I only bothered responding to half of them, making excuses about how my mom still won't let me see anyone. 

I think I heard May crying last night, and knowing it's probably because of me fucking _sucks_. I wish I could tell her it wasn't me driving, I wouldn't be so reckless, I wouldn't risk leaving her alone, but I don't. We don't talk about things, this family. 

  
  


—*—*—

  
  


A few days before I'm supposed to go back to school there's a gentle knock on my door. I pause the movie on my laptop. "Mom?"

The door creaks open and isn't her, it's Alex. I drop back down on my fluffed pillows. "Ah. An ambush." 

"Hey, how many times did you do this to me when I wasn't up for PT but you made me go anyway?" 

"Fair. Still, I'm surprised you'd sink to such a lowly tactic. I seem to remember you throwing things at me at least one of those times."

He holds his hands up in response to that, so I throw a pillow. He catches it, then pulls the chair from my desk to sit next to my bed.

"I'm not, like, dying, dude. You didn't have to come."

He pauses awkwardly before sitting anyway. "Should I not have?" 

I sit up fully, propping myself up against my headboard. "No. It's okay." I say. It comes out softer than intended. I cough. "Better than Clay coming to beg for my forgiveness, or something. I might kill him." 

Alex purses his lips. "Best not to, we'd all probably help you this time." 

He picks up the bottle of Vicodin from my bedside table, gives it a rattle. There's like two left. He eyes the label. "You only got these last week, should it already be almost empty?"

I give him an annoyed look that he returns in kind. "Well?"

"My mom literally checks like every five minutes, I swear I've only had the amount I'm supposed to. You're on camera right now, by the way. Feel free to wave." I jerk my head towards the small camera perched next to a pot on a small decorative table that she put in my room for the express purpose of having somewhere to put the camera. 

He waves awkwardly at it then turns back to me. "No audio, right?"

I nod.

"How do you, er…?"

"Jerk off?" I supply. 

He nods. _This_ is a surprisingly familiar topic that we haven't revisited in a while. 

"Didn't used to need to, I'd just go somewhere with a girl, but. Well. Now my dominant arm is fucked up, too, so, I'm really paying the price here. Had to call ol' righty into service." I lift my right hand. 

"I had a dysfunctional hand for almost a year, too, man. I get it. So, in the shower, I'm guessing?"

"I know. And yes. Hey, this might be the perfect time to call in the life debt you owe me! Care to do a favor for your savior?" It's hard to move my eyebrows right now because of the stitches but I make a valiant attempt.

He snorts and ducks his head slightly. "Yeah, I'm sure your mom wants _that_ on camera for posterity."

I sigh. "Worth a shot."

We fall silent for a minute. Silence has never been a big deal with Alex. It's something I've missed, if I'm honest with myself. I used to just sit in his room doing homework while he listened to music or played video games all day, and I'd suddenly realize we'd only exchanged a few sentences over the course of an hour. He keeps looking at me then darting his eyes away again. He takes a breath. "How's your knee?" 

"Well, Clay basically undid all of the work I've spent trying to fix it since November and it's back where it was, now with the added bonus of even more permanent damage and a broken arm to add to the fun."

He chews his lip. "I'm sorry, Zach. That really is fucked up. You don't deserve it." 

"I probably do." I say, then immediately regret it. He's probably going to try to tell me all of the reasons why I'm wrong.

"I mean it. You've helped all of us, in some way. Especially me."

I'm not sure what to say to that. He fiddles with the pillow he's still holding.

"Listen, um, if you ever need help with PT, I know how to do it now, obviously, and I can help you. At the pool or here. Just let me know." 

I sigh again. "Yeah. I'll let you know. Thanks, Alex."

  
  


—*—*—

  
  


I only call him to ask for help once. He picks me up and we go to the pool. It's still a little chilly, but it's better at night, when there's nobody else there. 

We change in the locker room.

I smirk at him. "Hey, Alex, remem-"

"I will leave you here to hobble home if you finish that thought." 

I hold my hands up. "Fine, fine. But you had to know I'd bring it up." 

He shuts our stuff into a locker. "I was hoping you'd matured since the last time we were here, but you just disproved that theory."

"Oh, I've been lowering _everyone's_ expectations for me lately." I hold the door for him. 

The pool is cool and calm, and we pull out the old bike he used to use when I'd help. 

I pedal for a while, our positions reversed from the way they used to be. His hand is on my back to hold me in place, his fingers warm and nimble and comforting. Every time I look at him the water makes his eyes look even bigger and bluer, like a fucking anime character or something. He looks ~~more built~~ less scrawny than the last time I saw him shirtless, probably because of all of the time he spends at the gym with Tony. I look ahead instead of at him for the next twenty minutes and try resolutely not to think about what my original plans for the Find Your Drink party were. It sounds like he had an okay time with Charlie, so. Good. Great. I'mnotgonnaask, i'mnotgonnaask, i'mnotgonnaask.

"So Charlie, huh?" (Zero points for trying.)

"Yeah, he's alright. He's like the only jock other than you I can stand to be around. Plus his cookies are good."

I make a sound that can only be described as a giggle. "They’re _very_ good." 

Then, like an idiot, I keep talking. "You guys didn't, like, grope each-other the night you slept in our tent, or anything, did you?" 

"What? No!" He seems genuinely worried I think that this is a thing that happened as if he wasn't next to me all night. Not that I paid _that_ much attention. (What's a normal amount of attention to pay, in this case?)

"I was kidding, but now methinks thou dost protest too much…."

"You are not allowed to quote _Hamlet_ when I did _at least_ half of your homework for that unit."

"Fine. But I didn't mean anything by it. Charlie's like one of the only guys on the team I can still stand, too." I'm backpedalling. (Not physically. Still forward-pedalling on the bike.) 

I didn't think he'd get so defensive. Maybe he does have a crush on Charlie, or something. I'd much rather it be Charlie than Winston. At least Charlie's sweet. And provides top quality weed. I drop the subject, after that, and after Alex takes me home I feel more unsteady than I have in a long time. 

  
  
  


—*—*—

  
  


I cannot believe I'm about to die with _Winston 'I can't mind my own business' Williams,_ of all people.

I'm pretty sure I'm actually going to die, this time. I've been blurring the line waaay too fucking much lately, it was really only a matter of time. I cannot believe I'm going to die in this fucking school with fucking _Winston._ God that fucking _sucks._ At least he has weed gummies. 

Maybe I get a little defensive when he brings up Alex, but I've had to see firsthand how heartbroken he's been for the past month. Hearing Winston talk about what happened like he actually cares genuinely makes me feel a little sick.

I interrupt him in the middle of a complaint about Alex ignoring him. "Don't pretend like you're innocent, okay? You lied to him. How's anybody supposed to believe you actually gave a shit about Alex?" 

"I _do_ give a shit about Alex. I give lots of shits."

A stronger man could probably refrain from rolling their eyes here. I am not a stronger man. "Mmhmm."

"I wasn't playing him. I loved him. I still do."

I look at him in disbelief. He's known Alex for what, two and a half months? Dated him for one? How is that love? What does he even _know_ about him? Has he seen Alex at his lowest, bitter and yelling and insanely, maddeningly stubborn? Has he listened to all of the songs Alex likes (even the ones that are weird and depressing) just so he can understand all of his references? Has he watched pretentious movies and then pretended to get them because Alex thinks they're "masterpieces?" (I watched _Eraserhead_ for him, man.) 

Has he taught himself medical terminology to read obscure pdfs online about TBIs to better understand Alex's condition? Has he spent more than a year of his life with a constant, underlying fear that Alex will decide to find another gun one day and finish the job? Has he pulled him, thrashing and sputtering, from the depths of a frigid lake? Has he sat through _way too many_ conversations about his masturbatory habits? 

I'd bet money that he hasn't (except maybe the last one, but I'd rather not think about that.) 

I don't know, maybe I'm way off base...the version of me that did all of that stuff feels irretrievable at this point, and I'm not sure I'd want to be him again even if I could. 

"Yeah? What did you _love_ about him?" I challenge.

He thinks for a second. "He's, like, the kindest person I've ever met."

My righteous anger deflates a little. "...Yeah."

Winston looks at me, suddenly alarmed.

"Wait, are you in love with him too?"

"No. But I—I…..I do love him."

I struggle to pluck the words from my foggy brain to put my thoughts to words.

"He's a good person, really. I've done a lot of fucked up shit and….he never judges me."

  
  


Later, when I'm less high, I replay this conversation. I think about how Alex was trying to help Bryce stand up and get home even though Jess wanted to leave him behind before everything went wrong. I think about his tendency towards vulnerability, like even though he pretends like he's just this apathetic teenager he'll still always open himself up for the unlikeliest of people. He will give literally _anyone_ a chance, for better or for worse. 

I think about how he was more willing than anyone to spend time with Tyler—he gets him in a way the rest of us don't. I think about the posters covering his walls of bands and movies and video games, how encyclopedic his knowledge is of all of these things. I think about his guitars and his record collection and the near-obsessive way he takes care of them, deft fingers replacing busted strings and organizing album sleeves with a thoughtless kind of tenderness.

I think about him spending half of a year trying whatever he could to recover his lost memories for Jess. I think about him feeling so guilty about what happened to Hannah that he tried to follow her down to the grave. I think about him killing Bryce after he threatened to bust my other knee and accused Jess of setting him up. I think about how his guilt over all of these things is still eating him alive, how much he wishes he could take it back.

I think he might be the kindest person I'll ever meet.

  
  


—*—*—  
  
  


I have made a resolution. Not a New Year's Resolution, more like an April's I-Keep-Thinking-I'm-Gonna-Die-Then-Not-Dying resolution: I'm doubling down. I stopped drinking so much because of the Vicodin and started caring way too much again and it's just making everything worse. I told Winston what I did and now every time he looks at me I can tell he's thinking about it, prodding my story for weak points and crossing everyone off of his mental list until he gets to the inevitable conclusion: Alex and Jess. I can't fucking tell if I'm paranoid or if him and Diego are actually onto me. What I _can_ tell is that I'll deteriorate until there's nothing left if I continue on at this rate. I've spent the past two years letting my guilt and paranoia gnaw at me and now there's nothing left in me to give. I _can't_ give a fuck, I really can't. 

So: no more enduring bullshit questions for college interviews, no more Diego Torres, and no more fucking Gordon Lightfoot. I'm out. That's my resolution. 

  
  


—*—*—

  
  
  


My dad was always the religious one between him and Mom. Where her primary focus was on music lessons and sports and extra tutoring, Dad always wanted us to at least have some kind of spiritual foundation. I haven't really thought about religion since he died. I kind of wish I could still take solace in the idea of heaven, or afterlife, or at least a Great Something, but it just feels like willful ignorance to make everything less scary. I'm not interested in making everything less scary or even less painful, anymore. I just want to _feel something._

That being said, I'm finally honoring our old embroidered throw pillows by learning the true meaning of "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" because I finally know how Bryce felt when I beat the shit out of him by the docks. I'm laying here on the damp concrete, crumpled and broken, bruised and bleeding, and I kind of think I feel more at peace than I have in, like, months. Maybe Clay's onto something with the whole 'getting the shit kicked out of him every other week' thing. There's literally nothing like the adrenaline rush you get, and once it's over you feel numb and sore and completely wrung out, too tired to think.

Did Bryce know he was going to die, lying here? Should I drag myself to the edge and fling myself over, feel what he felt? Let my last worldly experience be the burn of water filling my lungs until I'm swallowed whole? I probably wouldn't even fight it. I'm the one who doomed Bryce that night, not Alex. It was probably his dumb crush on me that made him so upset when Bryce started yelling about killing me in the first place. Fuck. 

  
  
  
  
  


I come to like an hour later, shivering from the chill in the air and feeling my muscles spasm uselessly as I try to pull myself up. Okay. Fuck. I should text someone. 

Asking Jess or Alex to come after what happened here would be beyond fucked up, so I can't do that. I'd rather die here than talk to Clay ever again. Tyler can't drive. Tony is training across town. I would never, never ask Chloe to see me like this. 

Charlie it is! 

**Zach Dempsey:** at the docks and can’t drive, need a ride. I'm okay.

**Charlie St. George:** omw, picking up Alex first.

Awesome. Great. 

I'm too exhausted to protest. Alex isn't always the best judge of what he can or can't handle but I know he's been back to the docks during the daytime, at least, plus Charlie will be here. Maybe it'll be fine. 

They get here in fifteen minutes flat, which I'm begrudgingly impressed by. Alex appears in my line of sight, pulling me up into a sitting position.

"What the fuck, Zach? Who did this? Diego?" 

I try to sit up again. "Technically I did it to myself." 

Charlie tilts my head back and hands me a tissue for my bloody nose. "What exactly did you say to him?" 

"I texted him to come and that I'd tell him the truth and then I didn't actually tell him." I laugh a little bit, a broken, wheezy sound. I cough and a spatter of blood hits the pavement. Gross. 

Alex just stares at me. "You knew he'd kick your ass for that. You wanted him to."

I don't respond. He doesn't need me to confirm for him. 

Charlie sighs. "Okay, one of us will take your car with you to my house and the other will take my car back. Then we can clean you up and get you home from there."

Oh, that's why he brought Alex. 

"I've got him." Alex says. "Let's just...not be here, anymore." he glances at the docks once, then studiously refuses to look anywhere but at me as him and Charlie haul me up and get me into the car. 

  
  


I lean my head against the cool glass of the window, tempted to press my entire nose to it in place of ice. I wish I brought my flask with me. _That_ would be a surefire way to numb the way my face is starting to throb with pain. Waking up tomorrow is gonna be a _bitch._

I know Alex is gearing up to say something, I'm just waiting for him to decide when the right moment is. 

Five minutes pass in silence. 

"Do you think they're closer or further from the truth after this?"

"Well, Diego thought me saying _I_ did it was unbelievable enough to beat the shit out of me while the rest of the football team plus Winston watched, so. I think they're still dead-set on their Jess theory."

His hands tighten on the wheel when I mention Winston. I consider telling him what Winston said during the drill but decide not to. I know for a fact it'll just make him feel worse about everything. 

Another moment passes, then: "You know you're literally your own Tyler Durden, man, right?"

"That's like a compliment, dude."

He makes a noise of frustration. Streetlights illuminate the quiet city in shadowy slices, bouncing off of the wet streets. "It's definitely not."

"It totally is. At least Tyler Durden's free from any and all bullshit."

"Nope. I know you're capable of understanding satire when you see it, Zach. What makes self destruction any freer than, you know, going a _whole_ twenty-four hours without getting drunk or making your sister cry?"

"Low blow." I mutter. I don't even have to look at him to know he's making that one face, the one where he looks half like a stern schoolteacher and half like his usual lost self, big blue eyes wide and searching. For what, I've never known. 

"Sorry. But I know they're worried about you."

"Listen, Alex, I really, _really_ wish I could bring myself to care about literally anything, anymore, but—" 

he interrupts me. "Look, just because you read some Nietzsche quotes online and thought they were relatable, or whatever, doesn't mean that I can't tell you _do_ give a shit."

I pause, then a slow smile creeps over my face. "I've been waiting for you to make that reference for, like, two months now."

He huffs but can't help smiling a little, too, tension temporarily abated. We pull up in front of Charlie's house and I let them pull me inside to a bathroom where they alternate between getting all of the washcloths in Charlie's house bloody and between admonishing me for going to see the entire football team alone. 

"You saw what they did to Clay." Charlie points out. 

"Yeah, but Clay is, like, unhinged." I shoot back. 

Alex raises a brow like he wants to make some comment about my own levels of unhinged-ness but thankfully stays silent. (He could probably guess what my argument would've been: there is a decided difference between grabbing a gun and screaming your head off in front of cops and abusing substances a little. Also I'd really like to never, ever be compared to Clay Jensen ever again.)

"I'm gonna grab some bandages from my paren—my dad's room. We still have a ton." Charlie says, leaving the bathroom door cracked. 

"Did he hurt your knee?" Alex asks, crouching next to where I'm sitting on the toilet and hovering a hand over my knee in a silent question.

I stare at him for a second, then nod and help him roll my pant leg up.

He makes a small sound, when he sees it. There are still scars from the surgery after the crash, red and raised and healing. He saw those at the pool. Now there's the added decoration of mottled purple and green bruises, still in the process of blooming after tonight's extra special attention. 

"God, Zach." he touches it, once, and it takes everything in me not to wince. "You still have a brace at home, right? You need to wear it again, at least for the next week." He grabs some more ice from the small bucket on the counter that Charlie had already filled, wrapping it in the last clean washcloth left. I hiss as he presses it slowly to my knee, still crouched next to me. His tongue is poking out of his mouth in concentration. Exhausted and slightly delirious, I raise a hand and push it into his messy hair, tangling it in his locks. He freezes, eyes wide and confused. Fuck. I snatch my hand back. 

Charlie chooses that moment to pop back in with the bandages and some of his mom's old pain meds then promptly pops my yay-more-Vicodin-bubble by telling me I only get to have two doses to get me through the next few days. He hands me a baggie of like six, total. Damnit. Better than nothing. 

They finish getting me patched up then help me to a standing position and hobble with me back to my car. I refuse to look at Alex. "Charlie, do you wanna drive me?" He looks between me and Alex, questioning. "Uh, sure." 

I can tell he wants to ask during the car ride home but he doesn't. God bless Charlie St. George.

"You know you have people that love you, man, right? You're kind, and smart, and…." He trails off when I don't respond, pretending to be asleep with my head pressed against the window. (It's only a ten minute ride, he knows I'm not asleep, but he doesn't say anything else until we get back to my house and he's indulgent enough to actually shake my shoulder until I pretend to wake up.)

I sneak in through the backdoor to avoid my mom's wrath for at least a day and collapse into bed, dreaming in incomprehensible blurs of blood on cold wet concrete and soft, tangled hair. 

  
  


—*—*—

  
  


I've been avoiding Alex (and all of them, really) for the past few weeks. It's mostly been pretty nice. More peace and quiet than I'm used to. The problem is I don't really want _peace and quiet,_ I want a distraction. There just isn't much to entertain myself with beyond alcohol, And it's kind of killing me. My knee is still too fucked up for me to feel comfortable whiling away my time with a willing girl instead of spending it alone driving or convalescing in my bedroom, and I've genuinely found myself looking at escort service websites more than once. It's not like I don't have the money. 

The first time I talk to Alex again is in the hall at the walk-out. If he has anything he wants to say about the night at Charlie's or the last few weeks he doesn't voice it, but there _are_ currently more pressing things happening so I might not be totally off of the hook yet. Fingers crossed. 

"Hey, we should be going out there, right? You think it's a bad idea?"

"No, total waste of fucking time. I mean, when has a bunch of people walking out ever actually accomplished anything?"

"Actually, I feel like historically it _has_ accomplished things, and I feel like I'm letting Jess down."

"Why? Jessica can make plenty of stupid noise on her own."

He winces. "J _esus_ , Zach, aren't you tired of pretending to be an asshole?" 

I resent his use of the word pretend. Maybe it's the other way around, and before now I was just _pretending_ to be a good guy. I wasn't ever very good at it. If I was, maybe Hannah would be alive. Maybe Chloe would still want to talk to me. The good news is I know exactly what to say to Alex, exactly how to rope him in like I always do: 

"Aren't you tired of being afraid?"

_"Yes."_

I smirk. "Then let's make some noise, but let's fucking do it right. Come on."

  
  
  
  


Lucky for us I can still get into the athletic supplies office and grab some bats, and we're by the back windows smashing them in, like, two seconds flat.

Alex barely needs a nudge to smash the first window, then grins at me. "I love this," He checks behind him for any of the cars attached to the sirens we can hear in the distance, "and we're so gonna get busted."

"Eh, not anymore than I already am. My life is fucked forever! So…" I smash a window without preamble, the shards exploding to coat the ground beneath us.

"You know it's not, right? So you're not gonna play football. That's, like, the least thing about you."

I stare at him. "Because really I'm smart, and kind, and I have people that love me?" I regurgitate Charlie's words from the car. 

"Well," he sighs like it takes effort to say, "yeah." 

I kind of feel like he's looking into my soul, or something. I get ready to smash another window when the cop cars finally swerve around the corner. 

"Shit!" I grin, already breathless from the adrenaline as we run inside.

Our feet slap against the ground, echoing through the empty halls. I drag my bat along the lockers as I run. We hide in the main office, breathless and giggling as we barricade the door. Alex is the perfect partner in crime, when he wants to be. We're good at distracting each-other, at lifting weight off each-other's shoulders that we didn't realize was there, before. He's been less willing to play along, lately, but he is right now. I cackle from my spot by the door as he accidentally bumps into a shelf, knocking a garish snow globe onto the floor. 

"This feels very Breakfast Club."

"Who are you? The basket case?"

He shrugs. "Probably."

"What does that make me? The athlete, or the criminal?"

"Mmm, maybe both." 

  
  
  
  
  
  


I meander into Foundry's office, taking great pleasure in methodically trashing the place and smashing everything in sight. My eyes fall onto the desk. _Is that…?_

I grab my file, flipping it open to what looks like a typed letter: 

_Let me tell you about the Zach Dempsey I know. One of the finest young men that I've had the opportunity to coach. Zach led our team with fortitude and empathy on and off the field…_

Alex peeps in from the other room. "What is it?" 

"It's my fucking file." I stare down at it, heart in my throat. 

"What does it sa—"

He's interrupted by banging at the door. Fuck. They found us. 

I stride towards him. "Go, get the fuck out! Go out the back way, come on!"

_"Zach!"_

"Why are you with me and not with Charlie?" I know I sound bitter, don't have the time to care. He stares at me, stricken.

"Go find him." He still doesn't move. "Go!" 

That does it. 

I shove the letter in my pocket as the cops break through, raising the bat. 

Well, nothing else to lose now.

  
  


—*—*—

  
  


So, Mom is pissed. Again. I've been indefinitely relegated to my room for the past week (not that that's ever worked before), and the current focus of all of my brainpower is how exactly to make it to prom tonight. I've already got the tux and the perfect date lined up, it'd be a shame to waste them. (Her name is Presmilla and she's very, _very_ friendly.)

I look up to a knock on my door. "What?" I call. No response. I open the door, and all that's sitting there is a copy of _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ with a bookmark sticking out of the top. I open it to page 824, where a passage is highlighted in wiggly lines of pink marker:

_"I DON'T CARE!" Harry yelled at them, snatching up a lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. "I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE!"_

_"You do care," said Dumbledore. He had not flinched or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his office. His expression was calm, almost detached. "You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it."_

Damn.... May really is a nerd. I guess I am, too, though, because I keep rereading it. I can't believe I'm getting all misty over a fucking Harry Potter quote, but, well, May knows me better than most.

My phone dings. 

**Besmilla Escort:** You can pick me up from 2327 Canyon Lane

  
  
  
  


—*—*—

  
  
  


Of all the ways I thought I'd be spending the latter half of my evening, coming down from cocaine in front of Byrne Memorial Hospital is not it. Presmilla's long gone, and thinking about that portion of the evening makes me feel like punching something (ideally myself.) The disbelief on Alex's face as he pulled her away from me was bad, but the lack of surprise on Charlie's face was worse. I almost did what Bryce did. God, I feel fucking gross. And now I can't even man up and be there for Justin because I still _can't fucking deal with hospitals._

Charlie comes outside. 

"Hey, what the fuck? Get upstairs."

I feel like my throat is full of barbed wire. "I--I can't, man, I just—hospitals."

His voice is soft. "You need to see him."

"I….I watched my dad die in this hospital."

"Yeah? Me and my dad brought my mom home from this hospital so that she could die in her own bed. Right now, your friend is really sick upstairs and if you don't go see him you are going to regret this for the rest of your _fucking_ _life_." 

I'm crying, now, barely refraining from curling up into a gulping, sobbing ball where I sit. "I can't, man. I can't."

His disappointment in me is so palpable I could choke on it. He eventually goes back inside and I leave, hating myself more than I even thought was possible. 

  
  


I crash at home for a few hours then spend the next day and a half getting drunk in a random alley. Not a high point for me. Charlie's car pulls up out of nowhere. Alex is in the passenger seat.

I wish I could explain to them that if they just give up on me it'll save them a whole lot of trouble, but this time I can tell this is a planned ambush. I might have to resign myself to my fate, here. "Something tells me you boys aren't here to party."

Charlie snatches the bottle from my hand, pulling out the cork and silently watching the precious, precious contents splatter over the street and settle into dark amber pools on the asphault.

"Woah, hey!" I protest, "That's a single barrel small batch Corlett. What the fuck?"

Charlie doesn't miss a beat. "Fuckin' bourbon guys. You can't even tell the difference!" 

Alex holds up a coffee. "There are two more in the car. Black. You're gonna get these in you and you're gonna go see Justin." 

I scowl. "Alright look, Mothers Theresa, learn to know a lost cause when you see one, like me. Like Justin."

"Zach…"

Alex has that sad look on his face again, like he's _this close_ to giving up but can't because it's me. "Remember on the rooftop, the night I kissed you?"

yes. 

Charlie looks panicked "Wait, you kissed him?"

"It was a shitshow—I'll explain later, but, you remember that night?" 

I am once again incredibly, _exceedingly_ grateful for my ability to play it cool. I take a moment to perfect a tone that says 'yes I remember but it hasn't even crossed my mind since it happened and I haven't replayed the noise you made when you kissed me even once.'

"Yeah." (where's my Oscar?)

"Okay. That kiss was embarrassing, it was a disaster, but right before that, when I almost fell...you pulled me back from the ledge, and I'll never forget the feeling of your hands grabbing me, keeping me safe…" 

I look down. There's a pressure in my chest, like a boa constrictor wrapped around my heart. 

"I needed it, and I didn't know it. And now _you_ need it."

What am I supposed to say to that?

"Th-the kiss wasn't a disaster, it was a nice kiss, per se…"

I can feel Charlie's internal panic increase tenfold. "I--it was?"

I shrug. "Yeah, yeah…"

Blue eyes pin me to my spot. "I don't love Justin, but I love you, and you love him, so. What the fuck, Zach?"

I am, like, two seconds away from breaking down, here. I let them pull me into the car.

It takes twenty minutes, both of them physically pulling me, and a lot of breathing exercises to get through the front doors but, once I do, it's….not as bad as I thought. I don't drop dead. I'm mostly sober. I drop my arms around Clay in a hug and let him lead me to Justin's room. He closes the door for us.

It smells like antiseptic in here. Justin blinks up at me, scooching up and propping his pillow up behind him for support. I sit in the chair next to his bed, wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs. 

"Hey, Justin."

He cracks a grin. "Hey. Charlie told me about his grand plan to get you here." 

I chuckle. "It took, like, three coffees to sober me up. And he dumped out my single barrel small batch Corlett." 

"I'm not even going to pretend to know if that's expensive. I'm guessing it is?" 

"Yes. He didn't even care." I make a half-hearted attempt at wiping away a fake tear.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, familiar and well-loved. I pull at a loose thread on my sleeve.

"Listen, Justin, I know I haven't really been...here, much. This year. I don't know if I would've been any help, anyway, but….I'm sorry that I wasn't."

He sniffs. "It's okay, man. You were always there before, not just for me. You did your time."

I open my mouth to protest but he continues on, "I know shit's been hard for you after what happened in November. You deserved some kind of break. Also, the team's definitely worse off without you."

"Well nobody's denying that, but it's definitely worse off without you, too. Losing its four best players all at the same time was, like, the nail in the coffin." 

"At least Charlie's alright." 

"True. Diego wouldn't know good offense if his life depended on it." He laughs at that like I knew he would: a small, rough sound.

A beat. "Jess is really worried. She loves you a lot." I say. 

His eyes are sad. "I know." 

"You two…." I trail off. "I think you have it figured out more than anyone. Love. Sacrifice. All of it." 

He reaches out, clasps my hand and squeezes it. I squeeze back. We sit together. 

  
  
  


—*—*—

  
  


I think I was wrong about death. It doesn't get easier the more you interact with it, the grief just becomes more familiar. Watching Justin slowly become less of himself day-by-day is one of the hardest things I've ever done. Everyday his eyes take up more of his face, the smell of rot spreading and mingling with the acrid hospital smell of his room. His smile is always the same, though, crinkling up his face and making you feel funnier than you are. I watch the circles under Clay's eyes get darker, I watch Jessica look more and more haunted as the days pass. I stop drinking because Justin can always tell when I have been and I know it makes him sad. Sometimes, when it reminds me a little too much of Dad, I have to leave. Alex, Charlie, Tony, and Jess are always willing to drive around with me until I'm ready to go back. 

  
  


—*—*—

  
  


He's here, and then he isn't. None of us know what to do with ourselves, now, but all of the hallmarks of senior year keep happening, and we just have to keep running on the endless treadmill to keep from falling off entirely. Most of us get our finals waived, at least. (Yes, Dean Foundry _did_ consider making us take them anyway. How did you guess?) 

Everything we do feels hollow: every class meeting, every final period, every graduation practice. It all feels meaningless without him. Without _everyone_ we've lost. 

I think I was also wrong about lost causes. In fact, I _know_ I was wrong, because I called Justin one. He had it harder than anyone I know, was set up with more shit weighing him down from the get-go than any of us, but he could still find it in himself to start over as many times as it took, as many times as we needed him to. He wanted to be better so badly because he wanted to be there _for us:_ He wanted to become the brother he thought Clay needed, the boyfriend he thought Jess needed, and the friend he thought the rest of us needed, without realizing that he already was all of those things. 

At least he left us with something more precious than anything: each-other. _God_ that's hard to say. Like it or not, though, I love these people dearly. Even Clay. 

I told my mom sorry for the first time yesterday. For everything. We both cried. She's still pissed, of course—she probably will be for _at least_ the next year, but she also took the camera out of my room to show that she trusts me. I kind of forgot that it's nice to have people trust you. Next up is May. 

I stand outside her door, rocking on my heels. I tap gently. She opens it after a minute and blinks, surprised to see me. I hand her the copy of Harry Potter she left outside my door last month and bend down to hug her. I have a lot to make up for. 

  
  
  
  


—*—*—

  
  
  


I've been watching Charlie and Alex together. It started in the hospital waiting room. They have this sort of...quiet comfort with each other, like they've just always been like this. Charlie just cares _so much_ about him. It's imbued in his every mannerism, every look. I watched him pick a piece of lint off of Alex's sweater. Not because Alex ever would have noticed, but because Charlie doesn't even have to think about touching him, about taking care of him. 

I'm happy for them. Genuinely. And if a tiny, ugly, infinitesimal part of me fucking _aches_ when I see the small, secret way they smile at each-other, then I will ignore it, and I will bury it, and I will be steady for him and for the people around me because it's what I haven't been all year. Alex Standall, resident heartbreaker—who would've thought?

If any of this has taught me anything, though, it's that nothing good has come of me acting on impulse and teaching the people I love to follow suit. Bryce would be alive if I hadn't beaten the shit out of him. Chloe wouldn't have spent months worrying about me just because I was selfishly ignoring her. Clay wouldn't have crashed my car. Alex wouldn't have almost died, _twice._ Whenever I think too hard about the chaos I've wrought, what a destructive piece of shit I've been, it just makes me want to revert back into my old habits: grab whatever bottle's nearest, snapchat whatever girl I've been buttering up for a few days, drive around the city and curse at the sky. It's taken a lot to ignore those urges, but I have, so far. I go to the same AA meetings that Justin did. Coach Kerba's my sponsor. 

  
  


I am so much _better_ when I exist for the people in my life and not for myself. I need to do that for them, _be_ that for them. Be Zach Dempsey: Human Sequoia. I'll never be like Charlie, so effortlessly caring in every bone of my body, but I can try to be. For Mom. For May. For Clay and for Jess, who miss Justin even more than I do. For Alex, who despite having brighter eyes these days than I've ever seen before still limps when the weather is bad, still has trouble remembering things, sometimes, still curls in on himself when people get too close; so used to not believing he's good enough. I know Charlie will spend every day of his life showing him that he is _more than_ good enough, always has been, and that's enough for me. I'll keep showing him too, whenever I can, and I'll start by not getting in the way of this new, soft, fragile thing he's found with Charlie. 

I email Charlie some of the old PDFS about TBIs that helped me with Alex's physical therapy. I know he'll read them just like I know he'll drive Alex around listening to whatever music he wants to help pull him out of panic attacks and help with PT on bad days and watch Cronenberg movies with him and buy him all of the obscure records that he wants for his birthday.

  
  


I also know that he'll have to learn how to handle Alex's bite, to understand that he doesn't always mean the stuff he says when he lashes out and sometimes he just needs you to bite back or to distract him long enough to get him outside of his head, which can be a scary, lonely place.

  
  


Above all, I know that he'll give Alex what he's always wanted, which is something normal and meaningful and real.

  
  


My phone lights up with a text. 

**Alex Standall:** wanna come over sometime this week? i promise not to try to kiss you

I feel myself smile. 

**Zach Dempsey:** You've got charlie to kiss now, at this point kissing me would just be greedy. Friday? 

**Alex Standall:** true. he wasn't thrilled to hear that happened lol, even when i explained

 **Alex Standall:** also friday works 

**Alex Standall:** also bring your guitar. i need to whip you into shape if you're really going to school for it

**Zach Dempsey:** whip, you say? kinky ;)

**Alex Standall:** do i need to block you again?

  
  
  


—*—*—

  
  


I have to parallel park in front of Alex's house, a maneuver slightly more difficult with my unreliable knee. I'm still trying to come to terms with it, and because of the time I spent drinking and fucking around instead of doing PT, it's looking like I'm going to have a slight limp for a long time if not forever. As long as I've spent resenting the last two years of my life (that night especially), though, I'm not sure how much I'd be willing to change for fear of losing the parts of it I'd like to hold onto as tightly as I can. Some parts I really, really care about. Some parts that are embarrassingly precious to me. I see a familiar face through the window before he opens the door and waves. There's one of them. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> twitter: https://twitter.com/onlybIeeding?s=09
> 
> also here is a link to the playlist I made for Zach and Alex that I lisened to the entire time I wrote this for anyone interested: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5cDGSaYzVlZ2xhvI9L6IBk?si=LB6faoqySK6CZcm0FrVImw


End file.
